I was at a stoplight at the intersection of Van Ness and Geary. As soon as I hung the phone on the mirror and looked into the pea-sized camera’s eye, the Lipstick Killer said, “Take off your blouse, sweetmeat.”
“What’s this, now?”
“I told you. No questions.”
I understood. He was checking me for a wire. First my purse, then my jacket, my shoes, and the briefcase. Now this.
I took off my blouse.
“Throw it out the window.”
I complied. Not one of the skeezy pedestrians looked up.
“Do the same with your skirt.”
“The light is green.”
“Pull over and park. That’s a smart girl,” the killer said. “Take off that skirt and toss it. And now your bra.”
I felt sick, but I had no options. I unhooked my bra and dropped it out the window as directed. The killer whistled, a wolf call of appreciation, that sicko, and every part of my psyche hurt from the degradation. Not the least of which was that this murdering, child-killing woman hater had boxed me in and outmaneuvered the entire SFPD.
No one knew where I was.
“Good girl, Lindsay. Very, very good. Now, hang the phone around your neck and let’s get going. The best is yet to come.”
Chapter 64
I URGED THE old Impala up and down winding roads, then onto Lombard, the most curvaceous road of all, a tourist magnet that rose upward, cresting at Hyde, giving me a billion-dollar view, the reason why San Francisco should be one of the seven wonders of the world.
I’ve seen this panorama again and again, but this was the first time I’d failed to be dazzled by the full expansive sight of San Francisco Bay, Alcatraz, Angel Island-and then, in a flash, I was hurtling down the steep, twisting plunge of Lombard Street.
There were more directions in my ear, commentary about how cool it felt to let me do the driving while he got to sightsee and think about his money. Meanwhile I was stopping at every cross street, hunching my shoulders, praying that no one would notice a bare-breasted woman heading down one of the most scenic drives in the nation.
I checked my mirrors and swiveled my head at intersections, looking for Jacobi, Conklin, Chi, anyone.
I’ll admit it. For an irrational blazing moment, I got mad. It’s one thing to put your life on the line for a cause you believe in. It’s another thing to be used as a robot for a killer, to be the lone sacrifice in an action you don’t believe in-in fact, one you think is insane.
The killer spoke again. He told me to double back toward the Presidio, and I did it, continuing on Richardson, taking the ramp leading to the Golden Gate Bridge.
Were we leaving town?
My anger dissipated as I came back to myself, realizing that the squad was frantic to know where I was. How could they find me when I was driving an old green Impala?
The Lipstick Killer had stopped joking and was all business as I joined the high-speed river of traffic heading across the bridge. The needle on the gas gauge was hovering over the E.
“We need to fill up the tank,” I said.
“No,” the killer told me. “We’ll be at the center of the bridge in about a minute. I’ll tell you when to pull over.”
“Pull over? There’s no stopping on the bridge.”
“There is if I tell you to,” he said.
Chapter 65
SWEAT POURED INTO my eyes as the killer counted down from ten to one.
“Pull over now,” he said.
My turn signal had been on since I got onto the Golden Gate Bridge, but anyone who saw it would have thought I’d left it on by accident.
“Pull over!” he repeated.
There was no actual place to stop, so I slowed, then braked in the lane closest to the handrail that acted as a safety line between the road and the narrow walkway.
I put on the hazard lights, listening to their dull clicking and imagining a horrible rear-end crash that could kill the occupants of the oncoming car and crush me against the steering wheel. I reduced my odds of making it from fifty-fifty to ninety-ten against. How could it be that today was my day to die?
“Get the case from the backseat, Lindsay,” the killer told me.
I undid my seat belt, reached behind me for the long, awkward case, and hauled it into the front seat.
“Good. Now get out of the car.”
It was pure suicide to exit on the driver’s side. Cars whizzed past me at high speeds, some honking, some with drivers screaming through their windows as they passed. I angled the gun case, reached the passenger-side handle, pulled up on it, and kicked open the door.
I was almost naked, yeah, but I couldn’t wait to get out of that car. I banged my shins with the case and negotiated the handrail, then my feet touched the walkway. Oncoming traffic was still swerving and honking. Someone yelled, “Jump. Jump,” and there were more horns.
“Bridge security is tight,” I told the killer. “There will be cops here any minute.”
“Shut up,” he said. “Go to the rail.”
My head swam as I peered down into the glinting water. He was going to make me jump. Approximately thirteen hundred people had leaped to their deaths off this bridge. Only twenty-odd jumpers had survived. It had come down to the wire, literally and figuratively. I was going to die, and I would never even know if I’d saved anyone-or if the killer would take the money and keep on killing.
And how was he going to get the money anyway?
I stared down at Fort Point, just under the south end of the bridge, and my gaze drifted along the Crissy Field shoreline. Where was the killer? Where was he? And then I saw a small motorboat coming out from Fort Baker, at the foot of the north tower, on the far side of the bay.
“Time to say good-bye, Lindsay,” said the voice in my ear. “Drop the phone over the side and then send the case over. Keep up the good work, princess. Everything will be fine if you don’t screw it up now.”
The wind blew my hair across my face as I dropped the phone, then cast the gun case over the railing. I watched it fall 260 feet straight down into the bay.
